


A Wall of Difficult Dreams (Divides Me From the Dead)

by Adventine



Series: The Adventures of Birdbrain and Fishboy [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, And Dick the Boy Who Saves and Is Saved By Him, Jason the Little Mermaid, M/M, This got out of hand way too fast, Vigilante is a kind of pirate figure right?, Welp welp welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adventine/pseuds/Adventine
Summary: Jason thinks he can swim away from a bird. Dick thinks he can catch himself a fish. Both realize too late that things have already spiralled out of their control.ORDick falls out of the Batboat and gets saved by a really angry and vengeful mermaid, and the least of his problems is actually getting back to Gotham.





	1. Do Not Carry Your Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Djar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djar/gifts).



> Plot-wise, please note that Dick works and lives in Gotham for the entirety of this story.
> 
> Exchange-wise, this fic was requested by Djar! I tried to accommodate as many of your prompts as I could, and in spite of all my inadequacies as a fic writer, I hope you still manage to enjoy reading this. Special thanks to Nykyrianne, who pointed out grammatical errors, plot holes, and was just generally super helpful during the time we were working together, and the JayDick Summer Exchange Mod Squad, who provided every opportunity and resource a writer can possibly ask for. Any mistakes and faults still found herein are completely mine.
> 
> The title is a line from Federico Garcia Lorca's _Gacela of the Remembrance of Love_.
> 
> Anyway, enough with the preliminaries. On to the fic!

 

Dick is not having a great week. 

 

It all started with his fridge conking out. Stuff giving up inside Dick's apartment isn’t unusual per se, but it's quickly followed by a triple-homicide at the GCPD and a sudden upsurge of gang-related activity in the Bowery. As if those things weren't stressful enough on their own, tonight the Joker had suddenly decided that a nuclear submarine was the latest punchline he was going to deliver to the beleaguered population of Gotham. Long story short, Dick’s feeling really tired, and he’d been looking forward to a little down time to catch his breath. Maybe a nice relaxing night on his couch with a double-patty burger and a milkshake, or a long hot soak with some of those fancy bath salts Alfred always sends him. He had definitely not planned on being halfway out of a motorboat, sniping at a Joker-themed flotilla, while Tim drove like a madman.

 

Dick shoots the engine of a boat veering dangerously close to B in the Batsub. It is replaced two minutes later by about three others following closely at its heels.

 

Dick sighs noisily but keeps on shooting anyway. He really can’t wait for this week to be over.

 

“Could really use a smoother drive here, Baby bird.”

 

Tim tosses him a dirty look, and then jerks the wheel hard to the left. If Dick’s thighs weren’t made of steel, or if his grip on the seat a little less secure, he would have been thrown straight into Gotham Bay.

 

“Hey!”

 

Tim doesn’t even blink. “Oops,” he says in his driest, most dead pan voice, before swinging the motorboat around to keep B’s submarine at the center of his sight lines. Bruce really needs to think about changing his parenting style. All of the Robins have turned out to be mouthy, sassy little shits, and he refuses to be a casualty of this indignity any longer. _The disrespect_ —

 

“N, three o’clock. Harley looks like she’s about to try something.”

 

That snaps his attention back to the present, and sure enough, a boat significantly larger than the others is making its way in their direction, Harley at the helm and waving an object around in her signature colours. Dick squints, too far away to quite make out if it’s just Harley’s usual hammer or something else, when a puff of smoke bursts from the thing and a projectile starts flying towards them at break-neck speed.

 

“Missile! Missile!” He shouts as he slips back into the boat’s cock pit, just in time for Tim to rev the engine and take off at a truly frightening speed. The force of it all is enough to plaster him to the back of his chair, but not enough to distract him from the fact that the sensors are all still beeping frantically about an incoming threat closing in fast, even with Tim taking some decidedly absurd turns. Of course Harley would get missiles with homing beacons, of course she would. She might be crazy but she always did have an eye for quality weaponry.

 

“It’s going too fast, I can’t outrun it.” Tim shouts over the shrill cacophony of alarms. “N, get ready to abandon ship on my signal.”

 

Dick doesn’t need to be told twice, and he’s out like a shot the moment Tim finishes his emergency exit protocols. Their boat explodes in a fiery shower of fibreglass and titanium not a moment later, and the water’s scalding hot where the burning debris is still floating. Somewhere to his left, he can hear Tim gasping for breath, while Harley’s voice carries over the sound of the waves, somewhere close but out of sight. A little farther out, he can see B trying to tow a struggling Jokersub above water. One of the hatches then opens, and out comes the Joker himself, hauling another cannon-like weapon of his own. Jesus Christ, Dick doesn't know how he keeps getting ahold of these things, but you had to hand it to him; he knew what to do with them, he got them fast, and he got them in bulk. The GCPD could only hope for that kind of acquisition and procurement efficiency.

 

He taps his earpiece, and the buzz of static tells him that at least it’s still working. Somewhat.

 

“B’s in trouble. Can anyone assist?”

 

Oracle is the first to respond to him. “Give me a second, I’m trying to shut down the power on the Joker’s boat. Nightwing can you — watch out!”

 

Dick’s luck for the whole week officially runs out right then and there, as he whips around just in time for him to see Harley’s hammer heading straight for him. It knocks him out instantly, and he sinks like a rock into the cold ocean water. If he’d been awake, maybe he’d have been startled by the flash of red speeding towards him, or caught a glimpse of the creature grabbing his waist and hauling his ass away from both friend and enemy alike.

 

* * *

 

When Dick regains consciousness, it’s to the sound of strange voices and the persistent throbbing of a spectacular headache. Training dictates that he play dead and eavesdrop for as long as he can, so he regulates his breathing and focuses his senses.

 

“Ἰάσων, you are usually more intelligent than this. You have really reached new depths of desperation if you think your plan is going to work.” A woman says, her voice reprimanding and yet filled with warmth in spite of her obvious disappointment.

 

“You worry too much, Ἄρτεμις. I know what I am doing.” This time a male voice, just beginning to deepen into adulthood, and full of enough petulant aggravation to remind him of Damian in one of his moods.

 

“That’s what you said last time and then you went off to visit a sea witch, _Poseidon’s tits_ —"

 

The voices are a little muffled, which means they’re not talking too close to him. Dick risks opening his eyes (it’s harder than he thought it would be) and finds himself staring up at a dark cave full of stalactites. He’s lying on a sandy floor, covered in something that might be leaves? seaweed? moss?, but there’s not much else to see but more sand, a pool of water for drinking, and a few rocks and shells. No chains, or handcuffs, or any kind of restraining device, which is kind of weird but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It looks pretty similar to the Batcave, but there’s the sound of crashing waves nearby and none of the artificial glow of the computer monitors that are always open for use. So if he’s not with Bruce, then he’s probably somewhere close to Gotham Bay? Dick remembers Harley’s hammer and Barbara’s panicked warning, and if his injuries are anything to go by (some of his cuts are still fresh, and his concussion is still throbbing like a bitch) they can’t have brought him any farther than the outskirts of Gotham.

 

Unless they’re magical folk, or are using new tech he doesn’t know about.

 

Dick stifles a sigh.

 

His location aside, who could have done it though? None of Gotham’s villains are particularly fond of the ocean, except maybe sometimes the Penguin, but kidnapping isn’t one of his usual M.O.s, and not without a clearer motive. None of Aquaman’s villains have any fondness for Gotham or the Bats either, which makes them unlikely suspects in this scenario.

 

Trying to look for more clues, Dick attempts to sit up and get his bearings. He doesn’t know how the voices hear him (he literally doesn’t make a sound) but they hush with his movements, and the ensuing silence that follows is pointedly directed at him.

 

“I will come back later to check up on you. If I find you dead, I will use your bones for a new hairbrush,” the female voice warns her companion, which she then punctuates with a splash, and then more silence. Was the entrance filled with water? Did his captors dive in and out whenever they visited him? Dick looks around his cave and finds an exit a few feet away, obscured by a boulder and some shadows. Why didn’t they block the passage though? Why didn’t they use it? Is it possible that he can just walk out of here and . . . ?

 

“I wouldn’t bother trying if I were you.”

 

Dick whips around, and there’s a young man watching him from the shallows of the pool he thought was for drinking. _What the bloody hell_ , he thinks as he starts cataloguing the new arrival’s threat levels. He recognises his voice as the one belonging to the male the woman had been talking to earlier, and for the most part, he looks like a random guy you might meet in Gotham. He’s young, maybe a few years shy of Dick’s own age, with waves of black hair sweeping across the pale skin of his face, and bright green eyes sparkling with a palpable degree of amusement.

 

He’s also very, very naked, at least from the waist up, as far as Dick can tell. No armour, hell no clothes, and both of his arms are draped in plain sight on the rocks he used to haul himself up with. Maybe a nudist millennial hippie person? He doesn’t look like he’s armed either, not unless he’s hiding something under the water, and Dick’s confident enough in his reaction time to believe that he can incapacitate the other boy before he can reach for whatever it is he’s keeping hidden. Not immediately dangerous then, but obviously knows something important that he doesn’t. While that doesn’t make him relax, it does at least keep Dick from trying to punch his lights out.

 

“Why shouldn’t I? Walking out of here’s looking pretty great, as far as I’m concerned.”

 

The boy rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand at him.

 

“Go ahead then. See for yourself.”

 

The other boy doesn’t make a move to stop him as he stands up, so Dick doesn’t see the point of making a run for the exit. What greets him when he gets there is the ocean, wide and endless, with nothing in sight but water as far as the eye can see. It’s like a scene straight out of _Robinson Crusoe_ , and Dick wonders, not for the first time, what he did to make his week turn out like this.

 

 _Stranded on an honest-to-god deserted island_ , he thinks a little wildly as he circles around, trying to get a grasp of the terrain around him. Aside from the cave he found himself in, there’s a few trees that make up a little forest, a slight hilly outcropping that ends in a small cliff, and a strip of beach about a few kilometres long. It looks like one of those tiny islands Bruce’s friends paid billions to develop and vacation in, and if circumstances had been a little different, Dick would probably have loved being in a place free of Gotham’s perpetual smog and sadness. Right now though, he’s stuck between disbelief and not a little bit of apprehension.

 

When he goes back to the cave, the boy is still in the water, waiting for him.

 

“Where are we?” he says a little breathlessly, still reeling from the implications of it all.

 

“You’re on my island,” the boy answers, matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The boy frowns, lips tilted at an angle that Dick recognises from Damian as a deeply-offended-but-giving-him-the-benefit-of-the-doubt kind of look.

 

“Well it is, whether you believe it or not. That’s why I brought you here.”

 

Dick takes a minute to process all the new information he’s been handed.

 

“And how did you manage to bring me here, to this island in the middle of the Atlantic?”

 

The other boy shifts a little, and hauls himself up further out of the water.

 

“With this, of course.”

 

In the faint light filtering through the cave, the other boy bends forward to bring up one of the largest, sleekest tails Dick has ever seen in his life. It’s not just any kind of fish tail either. It’s a tail attached to his body.

 

Now Dick falls down into a sitting position, officially and completely overwhelmed into silence.

 

What. The. Hell.

 

* * *

 

Are you really a—

 

Yes.

 

And is your tail really—

 

Yes.

 

And do you live under the—

 

_Y e s._

 

Are you a species or a—

 

Oh for the love of god—!

 

[ _They continue like this for about half an hour, with the merman getting more and more annoyed, and Dick spiralling further and further into confusion with every new answer. It’s not a very productive time for either of them_.]

 

* * *

 

Finally, both Dick and his new friend calm down enough to stop screaming questions and answers at each other.

 

“So let me get this straight.”

 

The merman (Dick’s still having trouble wrapping his mind around that particular thought) huffs, and because he’s submerged half his face in his little spring somewhere between the fifth and sixth time Dick has tried to summarise his predicament, ends up bubbling the water around him in a very furious gurgle.

 

Dick tries not to find that too adorable. It’s probably one of the signs of his mind breaking from reality due to all the mental stress he’s experiencing.

 

“What’s so hard to understand about this, human? Your friends threw you off their boat, I decided to save you, and now you are my slave.”

 

“First of all, I have a name. It’s Dick. And second of all—”

 

The merman surfaces from the water only to to tilt his head at him in confusion. “Dick? Like your species’—“

 

“Yes, and no they did not name me after that particular anatomical part. It’s a very long story about the historical development of nicknames and I’ll tell you about that some other time. But first off, my name is Dick Grayson, or Richard if that makes it less weird for you, and second of all, I am really not your slave.”

 

The confused tilt slants farther in befuddlement. “But I saved you.”

 

“Yes, and for that I am very grateful, but that still doesn’t make me your slave.” And as if this whole scenario isn’t bizarre enough, Dick remembers his manners. “What’s your name, by the way?”

 

“Oh. My name is Ἰάσων.”

 

“Iason? Like Jason?”

 

“You sound like a dying seagull, but it’s close enough. Jason sounds . . . right.”

 

Jason. It’s surprisingly fitting for his new companion, and it makes him seem more human, even if only half of him fits that description. All things considered, he’s been very patient with Dick, and hasn’t tried to eat him even once (he took classical lit, and he remembers that eating sailors was one of the things merpeople did). His attitude though reminds him of Damian when he was first brought in by Bruce. All aggression and sharp barbs, like a stray cat hissing at any intruder coming too close.

 

Dick however, has a very stellar track record with strays, Damian, and strange beings from and outside of earth, so he hinks he has the upper hand in this relationship, in spite of his smaller size and the lack of his usual weaponry. His secret to success lies in trying to get people to talk about what they wanted to do. The more he knows, the more he can figure out alternative solutions to the problems at hand.

 

“Why do you need a slave anyway? I’ve never heard of mermaids needing anything quite like that in the stories.”

 

Jason’s face immediately changes with the question. When before there was a playful glint beneath all his griping, now his face closes off entirely, and his eyes turn dead serious.

 

“I need someone to tell me about the world on land, because I am looking for someone.”

 

Dick has a very bad feeling about this, but he presses on, because he can’t not know what he’s gotten himself into.

 

“Who are you looking for?”

 

Jason’s eyes, cold and calculating, look past Dick, staring right through him and into an unknown space as he answers.

 

“I am looking for the man who killed my mother.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Jason’s story is as magical as any Disney fantasy and as tragic as any Greek drama. It involves a mermaid who had made a deal with a sea witch, a sudden but inevitable betrayal by a human, and now an orphaned son out for blood and vengeance, trying to make the same deal his mother made. And beneath all that anger is a sense of justice so strong, it burns in his eyes like green fire. All Jason really wants is to right an undeniable wrong, and he’s willing to sacrifice everything in order to achieve that. Dick understands that drive; he’s moved by it every day he wakes up. In some ways, he has also made these same sacrifices and decisions, crossed the same bridge and forded the same river.

 

 _He’d make one hell of a vigilante_ , Dick thinks, and that’s when he knows he’s in trouble. Not from Jason, he doesn’t think so, but from the way he’s already feeling about the boy and his situation. He wants to help him, wants to make sure that this ends with him happy and safe and at least feeling that he has been, if not avenged, then at least understood and his pain soothed somehow.

 

Dick is self-aware enough to know that he is becoming invested more than is healthy for the situation, and tiny alarm bells are ringing somewhere in his subconscious, warning him of dangerous emotional territory. But Dick has always followed where his heart leads, whether it meant good or bad for him, so he ignores it for the moment.

 

“But I can’t make the deal with the witch just yet.” At this, Jason looks at him intently. “This is where you come in.”

 

“Me?” That wrenches Dick away from his internal debate.

 

“Yes, you. I can’t go executing a revenge plan without knowing the way the currents flow in the area. After all, a hunter can only slay his target in familiar territory.”

 

“Now first of all, we’re not going to do any slaying, not even a man as evil as the one who killed your mother—”

 

Jason waves off his disagreement with an annoyed hand. “Yes, yes, of course, murder is against your moral code, etcetera etcetera. All I really want from you is information. General information at that. When I turn human, I need to be able defend myself, to find my way through these docks and ports as you humans call them.”

 

Dick doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Gotham isn’t made up of just “docks and ports,” or that a city consists of a variety of different buildings, areas, and cultural spaces. The very thought of explaining the concept of zoning districts is already filling him with not a little amount of dread, but he nods enthusiastically anyway, because at least it’s not murder. This also buys him time to maybe change his mind? Distract him with the Gotham sights? Let the justice system do its job before Jason takes things into his own hands?

 

It’s all vague possibilities right now, but he’ll take these odds. He’s worked with much less before.

 

“Okay.” With this Jason perks up at this. “I’ll help you, but under one condition.”

 

Jason nods, and waits for him to continue.

 

“I need you to bring me back to Gotham.”

 

A flash of wariness crosses Jason’s face, but Dick heads him off before he can slide into a full disapproving frown.

 

“Think about it.” He says in his most persuasive voice. “One, people will be looking, or are already looking, for me, and it’ll only be a matter of time before the Batplane arrives and takes me away, which will bring you back to square one of your revenge plan and this time without an informant. Two, the whole time I’ll be here I’m not helping you as much as I can be if I were in the city. I’m a detective—“ Jason’s head tilts in confusion and Dick hurries to explain “—basically a guy who’s job is to look for people and solve mysteries. If you let me do my thing, in the place where I have all my tools and resources, I can help you look for the man who killed your mother faster. Three, I can teach you more about the human world if I can show you stuff from the human world. Here, all I have are some rocks and some twigs. If you bring me back, I can show you how to use all kinds of things that I couldn’t do if I was just here.”

 

“And what if you leave?” Eyeing him from the corners of his eyes, Jason’s calm suspicion makes Dick’s heart ache. “You can say all these nice words, but it’s all just wind and spit from where I’m at.”

 

And Dick. Well. Dick really doesn’t have an answer to that. It’s the same question mothers ask him when he tries to assure them that the police are on the case, or when he promises victims that he’ll bring their abusers to court. He can’t ask them to have faith in him, not when the world has already emptied them out with cruelty. So he does the only thing he knows how to do.

 

He bares his heart and offers it up with all his earnest conviction.

 

“I don’t think I can ever assure you, not in the way you want, and not with the security you are looking for. All I have with me is the promise that if you give me the chance, I can show you how good humans can be. Just give me a shot, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you don’t regret it.”

 

Jason’s face is unreadable, and for a second, Dick is afraid he’s not going to agree, that he’ll just decide to keep him here and then everything will just fall to shit. But right before he opens his mouth, something in Jason’s face softens, concedes, and for the very first time since they’ve started talking, begins to look . . . hopeful. Then he realises he might be giving himself away, and his expression falls back into his usual moue of constipated aggravation.

 

“Are humans always this embarrassing or is that just you?” He huffs out, arms crossed like a petulant teenager.

 

Dick doesn’t have it in him to even be annoyed, so great is his relief, that he laughs and laughs and it feels like such a great start to something new.

 

* * *

 

Both of them set about to building a raft that Dick can ride and which Jason can pull to bring them back to Gotham. It’s slow going, because Dick has to chop wood (thank God his uniform has a pocket knife he can use to make other tools with) and Jason brings back whatever pieces of string, cloth, or vine he can find from the ocean to tie it all together. Dick’s been on the island for two days; he thinks he’ll be home in another two if the pace they’ve built is anything to go by.

 

When the sun is up Jason brings him assorted fish that he can cook, and when night falls both of them gather around the fire and take turns asking each other questions about where they’ve come from and the objects they use everyday. Jason seems particularly fascinated by the concept of books (permanent stories, you say, that don’t need another person to tell them?) and always demands that Dick tell him a tale before he goes to sleep. Dick is happy enough to oblige, and he tells him about anything and everything that crosses his mind, from the stories they used to tell at the circus, to little anecdotes about Bruce and Tim and Damian, to bits of gossip and urban legend that are probably as old as Gotham itself. Jason absorbs it all like a sponge, hungry for it like a man with an addiction, and Dick feeds it to the point of incorrigibility because the force of his own curiosity is just as strong, just as compelling.

 

And tonight, he’s managed to coax Jason to pull his whole tail farther out on the sand.

 

“Wow,” is all he can manage to say, and the merman smirks smugly, aware of the effect he has and refusing to be humble about it.

 

“My pod used to say that it’s the most colourful tail this side of the Atlantic. Even Artemis’ colours aren’t as bright, and she’s from Themiscyra.”

 

The way Jason says it makes it seem like a big deal, and Dick is suitably impressed regardless of how he doesn’t know the ways in which geography affects one merman's colours from another's. What he is sure of is that Jason’s tail is a magnificent thing to behold. It’s a massive appendage made of pure muscle, covered in a dark shimmer of wine-red scales that turn a deep purple in one light and an explosive gold under another. Every part of it deserves its own painstaking inspection, but right now Dick’s attention is caught by the transitional section connecting Jason’s torso to his tail. On the crest of what, on Dick, would have been his hipbones, on Jason is a smattering of pale translucent scales, surrounding either side of what seems to be a delicate pair of dorsal fins, fluttering with every tiny movement Jason makes.

 

“Little fin,” Dick blurts out in quiet breathlessness, because nothing should be that adorable on a two-hundred pound predator. Jason punches him in the ribs in indignation.

 

“Who are you calling little, you stunted landworm” he snarls, absolutely offended, and Dick can’t help it, he’s programmed to respond to that tone with a hug. He tackles Jason, wrapping around him like a snake, mindful to avoid his latest discovery as he locks his legs around his waist and clings. Because! Little fin! Of course Jason thrashes in response, he is a dark and terrible predator of the sea yada yada yada, and that’s how Dick finds himself trying not to die (again) as the merman tries to avenge his besmirched honour by drowning him in the ocean.

 

* * *

 

Nights on the island are spent curled around each other as they fall asleep, like two kittens sharing heat. For a deep sea creature, Jason exudes a lot of warmth, and Dick tries to take advantage of it every chance he gets by curling his arms and legs around him whenever he is within cuddling distance. When Jason tries to grumble about it, calling him ‘worse than an octopus,’ Dick returns the blame by telling him it’s his fault because this island doesn’t have a blanket. Neither mention that Jason never tries to pry Dick’s arms away, or that Dick never tries to build the fire higher, though he probably could if he wanted to.

 

 _It’s just a stupid crush_ , he keeps reminding himself, especially when he is constantly faced with the sight of Jason emerging from the water, wet like the best kind of porn and radiating happiness as he shows him his catch for the day. It’s just a stupid crush because he’s stuck on a stupid magical island with a stupidly hot merman close to his age, reacting to the sudden influx of attention and physical contact after a long time being isolated by both his day and night jobs. He’s relaxed so much in the past few days that knots and aches he didn’t know he had are suddenly gone, and there’s an energy thrumming through him that he knows he used to have but is now reacquainting itself with him with a vengeance.

 

It’s probably the whole island, he rationalizes. It’s the experience of fearless excitement, it’s the waves lulling him into a full night’s sleep. It’s Jason being there and looking at him like he’s the most fascinating person to ever exist. It’s so many things all at once that Dick’s falling head first into, and he knows he’s being swept off his feet and unable to ground himself and make the best decisions for everyone involved.

 

It’s just a stupid crush and he just needs to get a hold of himself and not let it get out of hand.

 

The alarm bells in his head keep on ringing, but Dick has become an expert at ignoring them.

 

* * *

 

Finally on the seventh day, Dick and Jason have constructed a raft seaworthy enough not to fall apart at the first sign of a strong current. All Dick has to do is stay aboard while Jason tows him and he’ll be back in Gotham by sundown. Hopefully, B hasn’t worked himself up into a fit of extreme paranoia and vigilance just yet, but Dick’s not going to bet on that. He knows how Batman can get when his family is involved. He’s probably going to suffer some intense staring and week-long surveillance if he’s lucky, with Tim and Damian and Babs helping B, because they are also shitty paranoid bastards who hold grudges against people who worry them.

 

As Jason ties the rope connecting him to the raft around his waist, Dick gives one final look at the little island he's briefly called home, with its trees swaying gently in the sea breeze and the waves lapping at its tiny beach.

 

“I’m going to miss this, you know.”

 

Jason gives him a tiny, knowing smile in response. “You should only miss things if you know they’re gonna be gone forever.” He looks back at the island. “This island isn’t going anywhere.”

 

“That doesn’t make leaving any less sad,” Dick points out.

 

Jason shrugs, and the play of muscles distracts him long enough for Jason’s tail to emerge and thwack him hard across the chest. Fucking hell, dude.

 

“Stop being so dramatic and get on the fucking dinky boat. We’ve got deals to make, places to be, and things to do, you know.”

 

Dick complies, and they are off just like that, straight into the blue horizon, and back towards the docks of Gotham.

 

* * *

 

For some reason, he’s not surprised that Tim has somehow figured out that he’d arrive back in Gotham through Port Adams. Dick spots him hiding in the shadows, but when he waves at him, he cautiously comes out into the open and watches them approach with wary eyes. Jason watches him back with just as much intensity, shark-like as he only reveals half his face from the water. Dick wants to tell him to knock it off, no one’s buying his dangerous creature of legend shtick, but then again, Tim is dressed in complete Red Robin regalia, eyes an unreadable white behind the domino and the red of his uniform as menacing as any predator’s might be.

 

He supposes they all look a little bit scary, and everyone’s got a reason to have their guards up.

 

“You have so much explaining to do, N. B is going to rip your hide to shreds.” Tim says as he comes close enough to be heard. It’s the absolute wrong thing to say, because Jason lets out a warning growl, surfacing high enough to bare his teeth. Tim immediately reaches for his bo.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine, Jay. Red Robin was just using a figure of speech. No one’s really going to skin me,” he says placatingly, and its enough to make Jason slowly back down into the water. Tim looks between the both of them, assessing in full Bat mode, but at least he’s retracting his weapons too, and Dick is going to count that as a win for him and diplomacy.

 

Now for the really fun part.

 

“R, can you ask B to meet us at the Paris Island Batcave? The one connected to the underground river? I’ve got one hell of a story.”

 

* * *

 

[ _One hour later, in the Batcave_ ]

 

So you fell and he—

 

Yes.

 

And he brought you to a ‘magical’ island and he—

 

Yes.

 

And he fed you and didn’t try to eat yo—

 

 _Y e s_.

 

And you are sure it’s not a spell, or a trick, or interdimensional—

 

The computers are still processing everything, B—!

 

[ _Off to the side, Tim, Jason, and Damian had fallen into some kind of wary truce after some moments of aggressive posturing, and were now letting the adults argue it out. Presently, they were all involved in a modified game of silent tag over the Batboats, with two people chasing and one person dodging. They’ve figured out that Jason can leap surprisingly high out of the water and dive back in with only the barest hints of a splash, that neither Jason or Damian trigger each other’s aggressive tendencies, and that Tim has some very creative uses for his birdarangs that take particular effort to avoid. Alfred, as usual, is unfazed by all of this, and offers everyone tea and sandwiches_.]

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious about Jason's island, I have no real explanation for it apart from it's a magic island that only mermaids and their captives/guests/food can get to. Kind of like Themiscyra, only waaaay smaller.


	2. Leave It, Alone, In My Breast

 

It’s been a few months since Dick found Jason (or Jason found Dick, depends on who you ask, really). Things have more or less settled back to how it was before, but this time, most of Dick’s nights feature a merman more often than not. He usually leaves his patrol of the docks for last, so that if he sees Jason, he has time to hang out with him until the sun begins to rise. Because he isn’t hampered by a lack of access to things, he brings anything and everything that comes to mind that he thinks Jason might enjoy: from cheeseburgers to flashlights to trinkets and old Bat gadgets he has lying around. If Jason’s curiosity on the island was intense, here with so many things to feed it, it’s all Dick can do to keep up with Jason’s insatiable hunger for _more_.

 

This week, he has finally shown Jason a book, and they're going through a battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ he had brought from a book sale close to his apartment.

 

“Yet, how just a humiliation!” Dick reads aloud dramatically under the dim lighting of the warehouses, feet dangling over the water. “Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly.”

 

Beside him, Jason is silent but rapt, hanging on to his every word like the best kind of audience Dick could have ever asked for. If Dick thought he could get away with it, he would have ruffled his hair and teased him about being a fledgling bookworm. But Jason is touchy at the best of times (and the bookworm comment would have probably sailed over his head, pun _completely intended_ ), so Dick has to be more subtle with his affections. Instead, he puts his whole heart into his little performances, no matter that the Regency-era English sometimes gets the best of him, or that half the time the plot bores his pants right off.

 

“Little Fin, literally this is a book about neighbours writing each other letters and visiting each other’s houses. It’s like one long extended vacation with B’s old socialite friends, complete with stuffy parties and gossip masquerading as small talk,” he complains, only to be punched so hard in the leg that he has trouble walking after.

 

“Quit complaining and read the story. You’re wasting the night and I want to know how these two chuckleheads apologise to each other.”

 

“You just called two of the most beloved characters in English literature chuckleheads, you know that right?”

 

“And you are just arguing for the sake of arguing. _Get on with it, bird brain_.”

 

And Dick, poor, foolish, and besotted Dick, suffers through his adoration with the grace of a martyr, resigned but helplessly hopeful at turns.

 

* * *

 

One night, Jason asks him:

 

“Is this how family is usually like?”

 

He doesn’t know how to answer that question truthfully. He’d always thought Jason would have a strong grasp of filial relationships, given that he’s ready to die for the memory of his mother, but sometimes he lets slip these little details that has Dick doubting exactly how caring a figure Jason’s mother might have been to him. But these are all only suspicions, and it’s not like he has any real experience with the concept. His own parents died when he was pretty young, and while he might love Bruce like his actual father, he knows that his version of parenting falls on the very extreme side of unusual. So like a Bat he plays it safe by answering a question with another question.

 

“How are we like family?”

 

(Somewhere in his head, a voice is cackling about how decidedly unfilial some of Dick’s feelings have been as of late, but he’s going to ignore that for now, thank you very much.)

 

“When I’m with you it feels warm, like I’m swimming in sunny water. Like a place to rest after a long journey, or a place to eat and settle while watching the fish dance.”

 

His tail is making little waves as he moves it back and forth, and it’s one sure sign Dick has come to recognise as Jason trying to hide his uncertainty by busying his body. He makes it a point to appear like he doesn’t notice, because Jason only gets more silent the less sure he feels, the more exposed he thinks his weaknesses are.

 

“With you, it’s like it’s okay not to feel angry all the time, and like everything will all work out fine if I just go and ... I don’t know. Do what makes me feel alright.” He huffs angrily through his nose and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Is that how your family makes you feel?”

 

He thinks about Bruce’s strength, Damian’s confidence, Alfred’s patience, and Tim’s resourcefulness. About Cass’ intuition, Barbara’s intelligence, and Steph’s levity. There is very little blood involved in the traditional sense of the word, but with these people, there’s no more room for any more intimacy. They’re already closer than most families he knows, knit-together by experiences no one else can even understand. With these people, Dick can help others in the way he’s always wanted to, because where he falls short, his family will always be there to help him do what needs to be done.

 

Is that what Jason is feeling? Is that what Jason wants when he looks at him? Is that something Dick can actually give him, whatever his own confused desires might be?

 

“Nobody’s ever described me as warm water before,” is what he blurts out instead, and Jason flops back with a splash in exasperation.

 

“Tch. I bet it’s all bad poetry and even worse sex puns with you.”

 

“Hey! Nothing wrong with a good innuendo!”

 

“People like you are the reason why romance is dead.”

 

“You’re just jealous of my killer wit and razor-sharp tongue.” Jason snorts in reply, but Dick reaches out to poke his friend in the shoulder, changing the mood from teasing to serious. “But hey. Seriously, Jay. I’m glad I help you feel better. Like I said on the island: you’ve got me on your side, okay?”

 

Jason looks him in the eye, and without resorting to the usual jokes and sarcastic quips, gives him a small, bright smile.

 

“Okay, Dick.”

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, it’s not all moonlit encounters and romance novels between the two of them. They get into fights as much as they don’t, and that’s saying something. Dick doesn’t mean it (he never does), but one night, before he knows it, things have escalated and he finds himself trying to tear his hair out in frustration while Jason clenches his fists in barely concealed rage.

 

“Of course I’ll help you anyway I can, but I can’t help you kill someone, Jason!”

 

“What does that even mean! That’s exactly the kind of help I need, _Dick_!”

 

Sometimes the distance between the two of them is greater than even the difference between land and water. It’s not a matter of having legs or tails, or of being different species with completely different upbringings. It’s the fact that Jason will always go too far and Dick not far enough. He can forgive and love almost anything— just not that. So here they are, stuck with no middle ground, their differences irresolvable to the point of pointlessness, and Dick has run out of solutions and alternatives and advice and patience.

 

So he does the only thing left to him.

 

He walks away.

 

Tonight Dick is seething (it’s a particularly nasty fight) and he’s grateful when he gets a call from the Titans asking him to come with them for a mission out in space. Maybe the distance will help, maybe it won’t, but he knows he can’t stay here any longer, in range of Jason’s anger and his own furious disappointment. In a fit of pettiness, he foregoes any of his usual methods of informing Jason when he’ll be away for unknown periods of time. Let him stew in his fury if he likes it so much. Dick doesn’t need this shit and he can shove it up where the water doesn’t reach.

 

Dick flies into the atmosphere and doesn’t think to look back even once.

 

* * *

 

Space is ridiculous.

 

Planets and stars and aliens of every shape and color in the rainbow, and space ships flying in and out like it’s not blowing his mind just to be at the centre of all this unbelievable life, in the farthest reaches of the universe, and in the most impossible of conditions. The Titans accomplish what they set out to do, but it takes quite a while, and not before Dick is ingrained with a healthy respect for Mother Nature in all her forms everywhere else, and a renewed belief that nothing is impossible if only people are determined enough to understand each other.

 

So when he gets back, he gives himself some time to think about everything he and Jason have ever fought over, and decides that at least they can settle on a compromise. What that compromise will be, he’s not sure yet, but he’s willing to talk it out again if he has to and at least make the middle ground he’s so committed to treading. If the aliens can do it, then a human and a merman surely can, too.

 

Now all he has to do is convince Jason.

 

So he waits at the docks like he usually does, and brings human things with him to entice the merman out of hiding. He brings another Jane Austen novel (this time it’s _Persuasion_ , because Dick loves a good meta joke in his life), and reads it aloud as he passes the time. On some nights he brings Jason’s favourite chili dogs, or chocolates, or sodas, or the _sholeh zard_ which Damian seems to hoard in the fridge, and waits until the sun begins to peak over the horizon before packing up and going home, overly full with both food and disappointment. When the food fails to work, he takes the Batboat and repeats the whole process over again, this time farther out in the water. Maybe Jason’s still feeling pretty pissed, he tells himself after another night of silence. Maybe he needs a bit more time before he can talk to Dick.

 

But the silence stretches on for another week, and not a sign or a splash of the merman to be seen anywhere, so Dick decides that maybe a little help is needed from the rest of the family.

 

“Hey Tim, have you seen Jason?”

 

Worryingly, Tim shudders into an immediate and complete halt, the likes of which Dick has only seen him fall into when faced with a deadly weapon and no back-up plans. He also freezes in response, wary of what his brother is going to say but unable to retract his question nonetheless. He can’t not know, not now, but he understands that the information he will receive will not be something he will enjoy finding out.

 

“You’ve not heard?”

 

“Heard _what_? What’s going on, Timbo?” And he’s getting worried now, because Tim is not one to prevaricate if he can help it.

 

He can see his brother visibly steeling himself, can see him trying to search for the best words to use to break whatever news this is to him, and then go completely blank.

 

“Jason’s gone.”

 

“Oh.” Huh. That didn't sound so bad. “Where’d he swim off to?”

 

“He didn’t swim anywhere, Dick. He’s gone.”

 

“Like, magic-was-involved gone? Got-his-wish-and-is-now-travelling-the-world gone?”

 

“Dick. It’s—” Tim’s frown deepens even further. “He made that deal he’s always been talking about.”

 

“The one with the sea-witch, right?”

 

“Yeah, that one. It was a week after you left. There were reports of a strange boy wandering the docks, a boy who fit Jason’s description. B tried to get to him as soon as we found out, but when he got there he was too late.”

 

Something cold is beginning to grow in Dick’s stomach, as hard and unyielding as steel, as wide and infinite as the ocean, as strong and inevitable as the pull of gravity from a dying star.

 

“It was a worst case scenario, full of bad luck and terrible timing. Joker had just escaped Arkham; we didn’t know he was hiding in the docks until one of the security feeds caught him and Harley escaping, with Jason unconscious and tied, dressed up like a Robin.”

 

Tim takes a breath, more ragged than the one that came before it, but continues with his story anyway. Dick can barely hear him as it is, doesn’t want to hear him, but his words reach him anyway, clear even across the strange distance that’s forming right in the middle of his heart.

 

 _Please_. Something inside of him begs. _Please don’t let this be what I think it is_.

 

“When we’d finally traced them, the Joker was already finished with . . . whatever it was he was trying to do. There’s a, was a, warehouse. There’s nothing left now but debris and shrapnel. It’s all—. It’s—.” Tim struggles like the words are stuck and gagging him, but it’s Dick who’s falling over and unable to stand. All he can see is Jason’s smiling face looking up at him from the water, calling out his name, and the grief he feels is so sharp it feels like he’s been shot and bleeding out all over the floor.

 

“Dick!”

 

There’s a crashing sound, and he vaguely knows it has something to do with him, but he doesn’t care because he still can’t understand. _How did this happen_?

 

“This isn’t—” Suddenly he’s gasping for breath, eyes burning and lungs working like he’s drowning back in Gotham Bay “—this isn’t how—” another mouthful of air that’s still not enough “—how it’s supposed to be.”

 

 _You should only miss things if you know they’re gonna be gone forever_.

 

Oh, Little Fin. The name circles around and around in his head for the rest of the night, and it’s all he remembers thinking as Tim draws him close and Alfred wraps him in a blanket, staying by his side as he shivers and shudders through the turbulence of his loss.

 

Little Fin.

 

He thinks the name over and over again because it’s all he’s got left now. He holds on to it because there’s nothing else for him to grab ahold off.

 

 _And you thought you had all this time_ , he tells himself as the pain pulls him under, and he lets it strip him down to nothing as crumples inward and grieves.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor baby.


	3. Tremor of a white cherry tree / in the torment of January

 

Dick avoids the docks after that.

 

He’ll be there if he needs to be, but outside any mission, he avoids it like the plague. Maybe one day he’ll be able to sit there again and not feel like curling into himself, but right now that’s just not possible.

 

He buries himself in his work instead, both with the GCPD and as Nightwing. There’s never a scarcity of illegal activity, and there’s always someone whose grief manages to eclipse his, which . . . helps. Somewhat. Life goes on, and so does crime, and Dick exerts himself until he can fall asleep without seeing a rainbow of red behind his eyes.

 

He also makes an effort to spend more time with his family and friends. A death always makes everyone’s lives seem so much more, well, more, and he’s not going to make the same mistake twice. He’d always thought he’d have more time, to say all the things he wished he’d said and to make up for all the little hurts and pains they inevitably caused one other. Turns out, they’re all racing against the clock, and he doesn’t want to lose anyone like this again, completely off-guard and unsure whether he was there for them as much and as best as he could be.

 

So Dick learns to be better, but moving on never stops being painful. Inch by inch, he drags himself out of his own grief, and he succeeds to a certain extent, but it hurts and hurts and hurts.

 

* * *

  

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months into years, until finally he learns to stop counting the moments since he came back from space and found things were not how he left them. He misses Jason differently now, maybe a little less intense, but with a little more regret, maybe with a little more fantasy in his memories. Sometimes he dreams he’s back at the docks, staring down into the water, or back on the island, looking up at the sky. In them Jason is alive and teasing, drawing figures in the sand or throwing rocks at the horizon. It’s a nice way to remember him, full of energy and life, and Dick tries to hold on to those visions as long as he possibly can. It’s a poor imitation of the real thing, to be sure, but he’s never been very good at moderating himself.

 

He’s always been greedy, even to his own detriment.

 

* * *

 

Life, however, is not done surprising him. It reminds him that Gotham is a place full of spectacular ironies, unimaginable coincidences, and impossible revelations.

 

It’s a hot summer night when Barbara tips him off to some strange activity down by the docks. That’s not unusual in and of itself, but Babs is worried about some new player who’s suddenly entering the Gotham underground scene with more skill than the usual crime lord they have to deal with.

 

“He’s been stealing from Black Mask and reorganising the drug trade all on his own, N” Babs had said while she was briefing him. “We don’t know a lot of people with the guts to do that, or the skill to do it multiple times. He’s also avoided leaving any trace of himself at any of the crime scenes, so GCPD hasn’t got anything to go by but a few shell casings and bootprints down at forensics, apart from the rumours of a mysterious man calling himself the Red Hood going for them.”

 

And that’s how he ends up swinging himself over a particularly low overhang on the harbour, looking for strange heat signatures or chemical traces. It’s the usual preliminary information gathering and threat level assessment; he’s not expecting to find anything big really, maybe a few scuff marks and weird chemical traces, but it’s the kind of work that has to be done in order to get anywhere. What he does find instead is a man waiting for him the shadows of one of the freights.

 

He’s broad and tall and wearing the red helmet everyone is calling him by. He also looks like he’s been waiting there for quite a while, with his arms crossed and head tilted, the very picture of cool composure unaffected by the tediousness of biding time. Dick, however, has met enough criminals and civilians to know that there is nothing relaxing about what’s going to happen between the both of them. Either this man has had a lot of dealing with the Bats or he’s confident enough to feel like he can take on one, and based on the muscles rippling down his arms and the number of guns on his person, Dick’s going to bet that both of those options haven’t had a lot of peaceful resolutions.

 

Never hurts to make sure though.

 

“Hey there, Mr. Red Hood. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

 

He gets a muffled snort from behind the helmet in response, but at least the other guy moves farther into the light. Non-descript leather jacket, tight black pants and shirt you can get from any store. As far as costumes go, this guy wasn’t going to win any awards for individuality, especially not with the way criminals dressed here in Gotham, but there was something strange about it all, niggling at Dick like—

 

“A smart mouth and a penchant for nicknames. I guess some things never change.”

 

The voice is heavily warped through a vocaliser, but Dick’s suspicion is only growing more and more by the minute. There was a cadence to it, a lilting rhythm underlying a strange accent, and combined with the way the shoulders were set—

 

“Have we met before? You seem to know about me.” He takes a step forward, and while the man doesn’t move away, his stance suddenly seems to radiate violence. Dick is going to get punched if he’s not careful.

 

“This isn’t a courtesy call, _Nightwing_. I’m here to leave a message. Stay out of my way or I’m going to have to make you stay out.”

 

“That’s kind of a cliche thing to say, you know?” He takes another step closer, and he’s almost within touching distance, when the Red Hood grabs something inside his jacket.

 

“How’s this for cliche,” And then there’s a red button, _of course_ there are explosives somewhere on the docks and _of course_ this guy has a trigger, and for a few minutes it’s all wind and heat and fire before he falls, his breath knocked clean out as he hits the ground hard. His vision is all loopy behind the domino, and he’s still trying to get his bearings when someone grabs him by the back of his neck and props him up against a section of wall that’s not burning.

 

“For a bird, you always did tend to fall hard.”

 

 _Hey, hey, hey, unfair!_ he wants to object, partly because that’s _a really good comeback_ , and partly because falling isn’t a regular occurrence for him _excuse you_. But all his protestations are rendered futile, because the Red Hood punches his lights out in one swift move, and he’s slumping back and pitching into unconsciousness before he can think of a witty rejoinder.

 

The niggling feeling that he’s missing something important is still there when he regains consciousness.

 

* * *

  

Dick, however, has never let any kind of setback stop him for long. In fact, some would say they make him more annoyingly persistent.

 

(“Persistently annoying, is more like,” Red Hood retorts while shooting at him.)

 

In the next few weeks, he makes it his personal mission to get in the way of Red Hood’s activities as much as he possibly can. He shows up at his drops and confiscates his weapons, he ties up his henchmen and locks them up at the station, chases him across buildings if he can get close enough, and ruins his drug deals if he figures them out early. The Red Hood retaliates by blowing up so much public property that the city government increases its fire response budget by 125% in the first week of their encounters alone. Consequently, Commissioner Gordon develops a tick in his forehead that throbs when either of their names are brought up.

 

But contrary to popular opinion, their game of cat-and-mouse is not without design. Clues are everywhere, if only you know where to look, and Dick has been trained by the world’s greatest detective in the art of unraveling mysteries. He researches like a man possessed, unearthing paper trails and sifting through Lower Gotham gossip to piece together the history of a ghost. He traces interactions that lead back to the League of Shadows, the All-Caste, and a variety of missions spanning all across the world, but all of them are recent. All of them no earlier than two years ago.

 

“It’s like he’s been underground his whole life,” Dick mutters to himself as he falls asleep in front of the computer.

 

When they have altercations, he wheedles and taunts and snarks and cajoles, and because the Red Hood is possessed by the same need to always have the last word in any conversation, Dick is slowly stringing together a vague but discernible picture of what he’s up against based on a compilation of throw-away comments and frustrating quips. It’s not much, but his gut tells him he’s onto something important; he just needs to figure out exactly what that is.

 

Instinct and intuition however, are hard to explain, especially to the other members of the family. Evidence and fact have always been their most valuable commodities, and Dick has nothing going for him along those lines. While they are always willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, what has become noticeable to everyone is that he has become a tad fixated on his target, and that’s always going to run against most of his family’s sensibilities.

 

Steph, being the unapologetic shitstarter that she is, is the first one to confront him about it.

 

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how aware are you that you are beginning to both sound and act like a crazy person?”

 

“It’s not crazy if I’m right about it, Steph.” He draws a line right through a map of Red Hood sightings he’s got set up. Gotham Harbor is circled many times, because it seems to be his base of operations. “I’m just focused. There’s just something going on that I can’t quite place my finger on, and it’s driving me up the wall.”

 

“Like what, exactly?”

 

“I’ve had about 17 different run-ins with the Red Hood, all with varying intensities, but he’s never tried to incapacitate me to the point of grievous injury. Last week, he beat up Penguin’s thugs when he found out they were harassing some kids down at the orphanage. Last Thursday, the East End girls all got in my way when I was trying to run after him, saying to leave him alone because, and I quote: ‘he’s a good kid with a hot ass’.”

 

“Hot ass aside, so what? You think that lets him off the hook, after everything he’s done?”

 

“I think he’s worth talking to at least. He obviously wants to do something more than the usual criminal empire schtick.”

 

Steph crosses her arms and cocks a hip. “He almost blew you up before he knocked you out the first time you guys met. Not to mention, he keeps trying to put bullet holes in you whenever you see each other.”

 

“They’re all just warning shots! I’ve never actually been shot by the guy. That means he’s not so bad that he doesn’t have an ethical code we can work with.”

 

“Dick.” This time, Steph gets serious and looks him hard in the eye. “Not everyone wants you to save them. And you can’t make it your mission to change that fact, even if you think otherwise.”

 

True, but also: “He’s never actually asked me to stop, you know.”

 

A blonde eyebrow arches up delicately in his direction. “Really? That’s the argument you’re going with here?”

 

That’s a trick question and Dick knows better than to answer that. Steph, bless her little devil heart, is not deterred one bit.

 

“So have you actually asked him what his deal is?”

 

“. . .” Dick hasn’t. He’s been too busy trying to catch the Red Hood’s attention that he hasn’t really thought about what to do with it when he has it.

 

“Ugh.” Steph throws up her hands in frustration and stomps out of the Batcave.

 

He probably deserved that, but also, she has a point. Let it not be said that Dick isn’t open to constructive criticism.

 

* * *

 

“So what do you get out of becoming Gotham’s premiere drug dealer?” he asks while hanging upside down from a fire escape in Crime Alley. “Money? Fame? Power? Super-villain club membership?”

 

From behind the mask, the Red Hood’s incredulity is palpable even from a dozen feet below him. The man he’s beating up is just as incredulous, and he shows it even as he’s trying to wriggle out of his captor’s grip.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be right now, wingbrain.”

 

Dick just shrugs. “I just stopped an attempted robbery down at First National and some gang vandalism down at Park Row. I thought I’d take a break and check what my favorite trainwreck was up to.”

 

Another loaded silence follows, but this time, Hood releases the man he’s trying to hospitalize and ends their altercation with a quick, vicious kick to the ribs. “Scram. If I ever catch you messing with the girls again it’ll be more than just a few teeth you’re gonna lose.”

 

The man doesn’t need to be told twice. Once he is out of sight, the full force of all of the Red Hood’s menace is aimed at Dick. Even with a mask, it is never hard to tell exactly what kind of mood he is in. _An expressive body_ , was one of Dick’s earliest observations, one used to communicating through physical stances and aggressive postures over large distances.

 

“I don’t know how to make this clearer to you Nightwing, but I ain’t got time to be wastin’ on you. I’ve got—”

 

“—deals to make. I know. You were always one to take them too seriously.”

 

Silence. Dick’s intuition, on the other hand, chimes once in agreement, before settling back into stillness.

 

“Whatever you’re trying to say, spit it out already.”

 

“I’m saying that most of your activities are beside waterways, whether it’s the harbours or the sewers or the rivers. I’m saying there’s no existing record of you in any database or archive from before two years ago, and your DNA has a dozen small tiny anomalies that no one can explain. I’m also saying that I’ve seen you handle some of the most complex weaponry on earth with ease, but you never seem comfortable holding a spoon or a fork.”

 

“You eat with your right hand, you write with your left, but you shoot with both any opportunity you can get. You have a soft spot for orphans and working girls, have less sympathy for middle-aged men with dangerous addictions, and an absolute animosity for the Joker and anyone associated with him. You’re indifferent to the Gotham vigilantes, though B and the Robins have all been caught in one of your explosions at some point. As for me . . .”

 

At this point, Dick chooses his words very carefully. “This whole thing isn’t about me, but something is. We wouldn’t have done this whole song and dance if that wasn’t the case. And I think it’s because we’ve got some unfinished business left between us, Little Fin.”

 

The name rings heavy between them, like a bell signaling an undeniable turn of events. Something visibly unclenches in the Red Hood’s posture, like a tightly-coiled anxiety suddenly falling away between one breath and the next. Dick however, feels like he’s been set adrift, tethered to the moment by the tips of his fingers and hanging on by sheer will.

 

“Well it seems like you did learn something from the world’s greatest detective, Dickiebird,” Jason says as he releases the clasp securing the helmet on his head. What lies underneath is the same shock of midnight hair he remembers, the same expressive mouth and freckled jaw. Dick thought he’d forgotten all of these little details when he found out that Jason had died, believed that maybe his catharsis was premised on the slow erosion of his memory. He didn’t think a resurrection was what it took to prove him wrong. He didn’t think resurrections were even real to begin with.

 

“ _How_?” He blurts out, almost hysterically. He wants to touch, wants to shake Jay’s shoulders and knock some sense into him, wants to peer into his eyes and check it’s not a doppleganger, Clayface, or some kind of disguise. Intellectually, he knows he should have been ready for this moment, that all signs had pointed to this revelation the moment the DNA analysis had come back a cryptic mess. But with Jason standing before him, unmoved by his distress and calm as you please, he feels blown over, shaky and bereft of all the initial bravado he started out with. He’d give anything to believe this is what he thinks it is, but the world has never been so kind or so giving, not without a catch waiting patiently in the shadows.

 

“How else do these things ever come about? I was in the right place at the right time, and BAM!” Jason makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “One miracle with a side of fries. Talia found me, threw me into the Lazarus Pit, and when I eventually put myself back together, I trained in any and every fighting style I could find. I lived in both the best and worst places this world has to offer, and I’ve got to give it to you land-walkers, you guys have got the practice of hurting each other down to an _art_. And I’d know right?” He gives a self-deprecating smirk at this. “I used to be half-animal after all. Ate my dinner raw and still twitching, but I never beat anything half to death just for the sake of it. That’s something I learned from you guys.” An expression flits over Jason’s face, but it’s over and gone before Dick can decipher it.

 

“But that’s not what I need to be talking to you about right now.” This time, it’s Jason that closes the distance between them.

 

“Because you’re right, Dickiebird. This whole mess ain’t about you, but something about it is. And that something is that you’ve got to stop thinking you’ve got any say in the things I want to and will do. I ain’t the same boy you left in the water, you’re not the same boy sitting on the docks, and the way things are shaping out, we ain’t even the same people we want each other to be.”

 

Jason puts his helmet in Dick’s hands, and before finally stepping away from him.

 

“Because by the time this is all over, I’m going to kill the fucker who killed me and my mother, you won’t because you’re not that kind of person, and there ain’t nothing in the world that’s going to change that. So maybe it’s time we faced that fact instead of swimming in circles around it. Maybe we’re just better off staying out of each other’s way. Because there ain’t nothing left for you here pretty bird, but some bones and blood and a handful of dust.”

 

"Stop following me, Dick. I mean it."

 

Jason leaves after that, and Dick hasn't got the energy to be contrary. Alone in the shadows of Crime Alley, Dick stares at the helmet in his hands and wonders if some things are just destined to be lost by some people. Confronted with a merman, who then becomes human, who then is raised from the dead, Dick wonders how he still manages to lose people in the midst of all these unbelievable miracles. Is it the way he wants? Are his desires over and beyond the usual measure of things? Is he too naive? Did he not do enough, was he not good enough? Had he failed at a crucial moment, made the wrong decision, and thus doomed this whole endeavour without even knowing it?

 

There are waves and waves of questions, and the moon sinks and the sun rises on them, but no answers reveal themselves to him.

 

* * *

 

If before Jason had covered his tracks and hid in the shadows, now he disappears completely from the Gotham landscape.

 

It used to be there was always some lead to follow, some sign that he’d been in the area, but now there is only a glaring and pointed absence in the Gotham underground. The affiliated dealers have all been given instructions regarding what to do in every scenario, the usual orphanages have begun receiving monthly stipends from anonymous donors, and the prostitutes are now the proud employers of a group of bouncers that keep the johns from getting too rowdy or demanding. While all of these are developments Dick generally approves of, they also now render all his usual snitches and informants useless. No one has seen or heard from the Red Hood in weeks because they don’t need to talk to him at all anymore. It’s a great strategic move built upon entangled promises of loyalty and independence, but Dick is starting to worry nonetheless, in spite of himself.

  
“Todd is not a child Grayson, and neither are you. Pull yourself together before I do it for you,” is the ominous advice Damian chooses to deign him with regarding the matter (and not because Dick asked, but because, and he quotes his little brother: “he has become disgustingly pitiful to look at, and his suffering simply cannot be borne by anyone anymore”). He follows Damian’s ‘suggestion’ to an extent, but reluctantly and resentfully. Because while Jason has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with Dick, he’s never asked for Dick’s opinion on the supposed resolution to their problems, and if there is one thing he just cannot abide, it’s being ordered to do something _just because someone said so_.

 

So he holds himself back, works to distract himself, and bides his time as best as he can. And sure enough, because good things come to those who wait, opportunity presents himself in the form of the a petty crime boss, a tip from Tim, and surprisingly bad timing for Jason.

 

* * *

 

The scenario Dick barges his way into is one he often daydreams about, especially after interactions wherein Jason has been particularly frustrating and obtuse. It involves a minor villain (in this case, some gangster with a few clever tricks up his sleeve), some dangerous weaponry being waved around, and best of all, a tied-up Jason out of options and ripe for some rescuing. It’s not that the damsel-in-distress trope particularly triggers Dick’s fantasies, but the idea that he has time to convince Jason to listen to him. If Jason is tied up, then Dick doesn’t have to worry about him suddenly leaving and shutting himself off before Dick’s fully said his piece. He’s self-aware enough to have come to terms with the fact that he lives for the thought of Jason _staying_ , in whatever form and through whatever means possible, so when he chances upon it in real life, he treats it like a gift and pounces on it greedily, like an addict with a fix.

 

It’s easy enough work to slink through the shadows and incapacitate the loitering henchmen one by one. They are ready for only one vigilante, not two, and because Red Hood and Nightwing aren’t overtly friendly in their public interactions, no one expects him to even want to be here in the first place. He dismantles the security protocols outside going in, and when he finally gets to the boss man running the show (who is currently trying to threaten a very uninterested Jason), it’s simple enough acrobatics to slither down from the air ducts and strangle the man unconscious with his thighs.

 

“Show-off,” Jason mutters after the man has been tied up with the rest of his crew. Dick gives him a jaunty little bow, before leaning over and pretending to inspect Jason’s bindings. As an added reward to himself, he does it with the most amount of physical contact possible, sliding hands down bound arms and nestling his head in the crook of the other’s neck.

 

“Come on birdbrain, I haven’t got all night,” Jason grumbles as he tries to valiantly shrug him off. “Just take these damn things off so we can call it a night already.”

 

“No.”

 

Beneath the coils of the rope, Jason puffs up in furious indignation. There’s an angry furrow beginning to form between his eyes, and the slant of his mouth has gone from mildly annoyed to dangerously menacing. Dick remembers these particular tells from Jason’s merman days, because they usually signalled that he was about to launch himself out of the water and would try to strangle whoever it was that had triggered his temper. If this were a different situation, Dick would know better than to provoke such an extreme reaction from the other, but he’s come to the realization that diplomacy and negotiations don’t work on a Jason in denial, and so he has to try a more direct approach if he wants to be understood.

 

Dick’s lost him once already. He’s not going to bullied into agreeing to lose him a second time, and Jason has to do more than give a melodramatic temper tantrum to scare him away.

 

“We’ve already talked about this, N. This isn’t—” Before Jason can continue and hit peak momentum on his angry tirade, Dick cuts him off by straddling his lap and putting a palm over his mouth.

 

“No, we haven’t actually. I distinctly remember you making your points, and me listening to them, but not once did you consider my opinion or allow me to explain my side of things. Then you up and disappear, and really, what the fuck, Little Fin?” This time, he gives in to his urges and mildly shakes Jason’s shoulder _Because_. _He. Is. So. Done. Being. Ignored._

 

“So while we are here, I’ve got all the time in the world to tell you that I don’t care about your stupid agenda as much as I care about you. That I don’t need you to subscribe to my code of ethics, or to stop following your vengeful little heart. I just want to be part of your life again, and if you just thought about that a little, maybe you’d see it’s not as terrible as you’re making it out to be.” From beneath the fan of his lashes, Dick searches Jason’s face for any sign that he understands the gravity of what he’s saying. What he finds is a person stunned into silence, confusion and incredulity all mixed up in the O of his mouth, in the arc of his eyebrows.

 

“You can’t be serious about this, Dickiebird. This isn’t a fairytale. You're just missing some ghost you once knew.” Jason whispers hoarsely.

 

“I think that’s you underestimating how much we both want this to work, and I don’t think I’m wrong about that.”

 

“You’re not wrong, but I can’t imagine how you can possibly be right about this either. It’s too much, _you were never interested in me before_ , how can you—”

 

He brings his hands up again to Jason’s mouth and presses lightly, before he manages to overwhelm himself with worry, and gives the back of his hand a tiny peck for reassurance.

 

“I don’t need you to believe everything I’m saying right now, but I am asking you to give me the chance to change your mind.”

 

A beat, a moment, and then suddenly all the fight drains away from Jason’s body like water running down a cliff. His muscles relax, and his spine bends just a little from military attention to casual defeat. Dick doesn’t push anymore though, because at this point, Jason is just as likely to dig his heels in than listen to him. So he uncurls from his position on the other’s lap, takes one of the birdarangs hidden in his uniform, and swipes it through the ropes keeping the other immobile.

 

“Think about it, and if you feel like giving it a shot, you know where to find me.”

 

And with that, he jumps out the window and leaves Jason to decide.

 

* * *

 

 [ _A few weeks later, on the Gotham docks_.]

 

I didn’t think you’d still be here.

 

I didn’t think you’d ever show at all.

 

I guess it’s great then that we are both wrong about each other.

 

Or maybe we’re just right in the best ways.

 

Keep on dreaming, Dickiebird.

 

I plan on it, Little Fin, and I’m bringing you along with me.

 

 

[End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, that was a long fic. *passes out*
> 
> When I find the time, I'll probably add a smutty courtship fic to this whole arc.


End file.
